August
by Lady Serpentine
Summary: “I shall name my firstborn Draco, if it is a son.” Lucius and Severus share some words, and something more, on the night of Bellatrix's wedding day. Light R, just in case.


[[Written as a birthday present for one of my idols, Jules. She liked it. I was over the moon.

Characters and suchlike © JKR, etc. This is a Lucius/Severus. Ooer.]]

The garden is beautiful. The soft, cool scent of flowers is in the air; the grass is wet with dew underfoot, tempting those of starched collars and thick robes to cast off their boots or shoes and _run_, just run, laughing and happy through the dark twisting hedges and the sloping lawns. Just to forget.

There are lights, but they're far away, back at the pavilions where Bellatrix is, dancing, her long black hair swinging and reflecting gold from the lanterns. She's probably still barefoot, hiking up the skirts of her wedding ensemble. As he left he watched her dance with his black eyes, watched her swing about and tumble into Rodolphus' strong arms, laughing.

But his back is to the lights, now, and his eyes are turned to the darkness of the gardens, lit by stars, and for a second he wants to kick off his boots, but he restrains himself. The laughter and magic is muted in the silence of the bushes, the buzz of night time insects, the trees twisted like lovers under a Beltane moon.

"I'm married," Bellatrix gushes. Her pale face is glowing, her cheeks are bright and full of joy. He's seen Bellatrix happy before, he's seen her shrieking with laughter and flushed with drink, but this is different. This time, Bellatrix is just vibrant in a way she hasn't been since she was fifteen, before she found out what infertility was. "Oh, Severus, I'm married and he loves_ me."_

And as she moves away, he turns and sees a pale blond man holding a glass of champagne, looking on, and they both think, darkly, He damn well better.

Severus plays idly with the sleeve of his finely cut robes, and just thinks. He thinks a lot anyway, so this is really no change in habit, but there's a difference in the twist of his mouth, the glint in his eyes. He's worried, and it's strange because he's not worried about himself anymore.

There's the soft wisp of fabric on the grass, a slithering sound like that of a snake; not loud, but muted, innocent and somehow predatory. Severus turns to look and sees a slender, beautiful man a few paces away, his chin tipped back to reveal an ivory throat, looking up at the sky.

"The stars are lovely tonight," the man remarks. Severus says nothing. The moonlight makes already pale, silvery blonde hair look white; the complexion becomes porcelain and fine without sunlight to make it glow. The man raises a velvet, gloved hand and points at a certain star, his arm moving in a half circle. "Look," he says, smiling slightly, "Bellatrix."

"Why aren't you at the party, Lucius?" Severus asks. The man lets his arm drop, but he's still looking up, smiling a little.

"You're not listening to me," Lucius says, smirking, "Or else you would have corrected me. Bellatrix isn't up here. It's August. Pity. Would have been fitting, wouldn't it?"

"Why aren't you at the party?"

"Because with all the lanterns it is harder to see the stars," Lucius says, sounding amused at such an inane question. "Do you know what constellation I like? Draco. It's not up here anymore, that was last month." Here he pauses, taps his chin. "I shall name my firstborn Draco, if it is a son."

"His mother would never allow it," Severus responds. "Draco. What a silly name."

"I like it," Lucius argues mildly, "It has a nice ring to it. Draco."

There is something very disturbing about Lucius' decision, and Severus vaguely thinks, _he who is called the Dragon…_ when Lucius starts to speak again.

"Were you not enjoying the party?" He inquires, his tone faintly curious. He looks at Severus, now, and his eyes are deep, velvet grey in the night. The starlight reflects on his hair, his jaw, nose, the curve of an eyeball. "I know you are not a social person, but you could at least give Bellatrix a dance or two. She likes dancing."

"I intend to go back soon," Severus replies, though he really hadn't, not for awhile, at least; but Lucius says he should, so he will. He's nineteen now, and Lucius is only four years his senior - the difference is not so great, now that they are out of school - and yet Severus feels dwarfed by Lucius, as ever and always. Lucius lacks the stability, the grounded control he will have in a few short years to come once his father is gone and he has control of the Malfoy, but still he makes Severus feel rumpled, and used, and messy. "It's her night. I have to make sure she's happy."

"It is her night," Lucius agrees. He moves towards Severus, and then past; slinking over the grass like a panther on the savannah. He touches Severus' arm in passing, a mere tug on his sleeve. "Walk with me."

Severus does. They wander along the lawns, staying away from the white gravel path, their robes rustling and hissing along dew. The garden is quiet, but Severus has the feeling that it whispers whenever it thinks he can't hear it, like the schoolboys at school those few years ago.

"What a lovely estate this is," Lucius murmurs, ignoring his companion's discomfort. He stops to look at a rose in bloom. "It's all grown by magic, obviously… but the care put into it all…"

Lucius draws off his gloves, folds them, puts them away into the shadows of his intricate robes, so his soft fingers can caress the silk of petals, feel the sting of thorns. He plucks away a petal, rubbing it between his fingertips. "Do you think she married the right man, Severus?"

Severus gives Lucius a look. "I certainly hope so."

"I think so," Lucius says, flicking the petal away. It's an oddly sharp motion in the dreamlike serenity of the gardens. "He's a good man. Twenty-five years old, Slytherin, wealthy, intelligent. He's French, unfortunately, but I'm sure that's not his fault."

Severus wonders why Lucius isn't at the party, charming the pretty French girls in the pretty French robes, but Lucius touches his arm again and he's swept away by the blond aristocrat clad in black and blood red velvet, so he's not allowed to wonder anymore.

There's something about the garden that dulls Severus' senses, or maybe just his mind. He's sure Lucius can feel it too, in fact, he _knows _Lucius can; Lucius feels everything, knows everything, can take a long, shuddering breath in the middle of nowhere and say, "There's magic in the air," and be utterly honest about it.

Lucius is a strange man and Severus knows it, and maybe he even loves it; one can't be sure with people like the Malfoys.

"Are you going to get married, then?" Severus asks, to break the silence of the garden. "On account of you naming your son Draco."

"Of course I am," Lucius murmurs, "You?"

"No."

"Yes, I thought so," Lucius sighs. He's looking around the garden again, as if double-checking for something, and little strands of hair are curling rebelliously away from the rest of his tresses, so faint that one would only notice if one was very close.

Severus is very close now, because Lucius' hands are on his chest, and Severus is sure that Lucius can feel his heart, beating a quick tattoo. Lucius' lips look soft, deceptively innocent in the way they turn up at the edges, and his eyelashes are silver.

Severus takes a step back and Lucius steps forward and they tumble down, down into the grass, and Lucius is laughing, and he's laughing like Bellatrix laughs when she's in love.

"It's August," Lucius says.

"You were born in August," Severus responds, because he simply has no idea what to say. The grass is cool on his back and there's warmth in his stomach and his breath hitches in his throat.

"Severus," Lucius says, and Severus thinks he's about to say something important, but the blonde catches himself, and he's silent.

Lucius says, "Never mind," and he twists away from Severus, staggering to his feet, and in a few seconds he's regaining himself, putting back all the pieces that fell away when he tumbled to the ground.

But Severus' lips move. "No," he says, taking hold of Lucius' arm, insistent, and they're tangled together in the grass again, and the smell fills Severus' nose as stray blonde hair tickles his throat and Severus thinks that he'd very much like to stay that way.

Lucius is a considerate lover and he tries to make it last, but too soon Severus is lying on the ground with Lucius' arms wound about his bony torso, and he's licking sweat off the perfect, smooth jut of Lucius' collarbone. And Severus reminds himself that Lucius is horrible, and he's a killer, and he rips apart families and thinks it's right.

Well, Severus thinks dazedly, as he watches Lucius sit up and stretch, his smooth back curving slightly, _he's a Malfoy. It's what Malfoys do. Bad blood._

Lucius pulls on his trousers and Severus, with a start, scrambles for his own clothes, aware of Lucius' searching eyes on his naked skin. The Malfoy gets down to his knees and they kiss again, soft and insistent, and while a repeat would be quite invigorating, Severus' duties call him away.

"The party," Severus reminds him.

Lucius half shrugs and puts his interest back on his clothes, checking for grass stains and making a pleased little sound when he sees there are none, but it cannot compare to the sound Lucius made when Severus had slid his hand between his thighs… "Keep an eye on Lestrange," he says after a moment.

"Of course." Severus murmurs.

Because tonight is Bellatrix's night, and she's never been so happy for nearly ten years. And they're weren't about to ruin that, and neither would a Frenchman.


End file.
